"Well, you are absurdly melancholy, Tess. I have no

reason for flattering you now, and I can say plainly

that you need not be so sad. You can hold your own for

beauty against any woman of these parts, gentle or

simple; I say it to you as a practical man and

well-wisher. If you are wise you will show it to the

world more than you do before it fades... And yet,

Tess, will you come back to me! Upon my soul, I don't

like to let you go like this!"

"Never, never! I made up my mind as soon as I saw--what I ought to

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have seen sooner; and I won't come."

"Then good morning, my four months' cousin--good-bye!"

He leapt up lightly, arranged the reins, and was gone between the

tall red-berried hedges.

Tess did not look after him, but slowly wound along the crooked lane.

It was still early, and though the sun's lower limb was just free of

the hill, his rays, ungenial and peering, addressed the eye rather

than the touch as yet. There was not a human soul near. Sad October

and her sadder self seemed the only two existences haunting that

lane. As she walked, however, some footsteps approached behind her, the

footsteps of a man; and owing to the briskness of his advance he was

close at her heels and had said "Good morning" before she had been

long aware of his propinquity. He appeared to be an artisan of some

sort, and carried a tin pot of red paint in his hand. He asked

in a business-like manner if he should take her basket, which she

permitted him to do, walking beside him. "It is early to be astir this Sabbath morn!" he said cheerfully. "

Yes," said Tess. "When most people are at rest from their week's work."

She also assented to this. "Though I do more real work to-day than all the week besides."

"Do you?"

"All the week I work for the glory of man, and on Sunday for the

glory of God. That's more real than the other--hey? I have a little

to do here at this stile." The man turned, as he spoke, to an

opening at the roadside leading into a pasture. "If you'll wait a

moment," he added, "I shall not be long."

As he had her basket she could not well do otherwise; and she waited,

observing him. He set down her basket and the tin pot, and stirring

the paint with the brush that was in it began painting large square

letters on the middle board of the three composing the stile, placing

a comma after each word, as if to give pause while that word was

driven well home to the reader's heart-




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